


War Games

by drosera



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poisoning/drugging (but Hubert is used to it), Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:28:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25392379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drosera/pseuds/drosera
Summary: Hubert and Sylvain play games. Some snippets.--Rating to increase and be added in later chapters/snippets.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 35
Kudos: 96





	1. Game

**Author's Note:**

> I have a burning need to write these two and so I will just put these to paper and keep adding them as I can.

“Not too shabby for front line carrion, eh Hubert?” 

Sylvain is smirking, his eyes sparkling. His victory does not seem to have warmed him, only sharpened his tone. When Sylvain speaks he looks in Hubert’s direction—at a point on Hubert’s shoulder, or perhaps his ear. When Hubert answers, Sylvain’s eyes turn directly to Hubert’s face. Sylvain talks at or past him, but listens _to_ him. It’s fascinating to watch Sylvain’s eyes flit about in conversation. It gives the appearance of an exuberant conversational partner. 

To those not paying attention, that impression is doubtlessly maintained. Prolonged exposure to Sylvain José Gautier has revealed to Hubert the frenzy bubbling beneath, the shakiness on which his exuberance rests. He knows that with very little force he could shatter that crumbled base, send the pieces to the floor every which way. 

“Fancy a rematch?” 

Hubert finds that he does, in fact, fancy a rematch. 

He lets Sylvain busy his hands and set up the pieces again. Like their owner, they are surprisingly deft for their size and level of scarring in battle. Hubert’s coffee lies cooling on the side table, forgotten. It is late, talks of battle strategy long forgotten into the gentle hum of the day turned to evening. Hubert has cracked the window to let in the cool breeze, which now ruffles Sylvain’s russet locks that frame his face in artful chaos. 

Hubert allows himself to sit back and enjoy that artful chaos personified. Sylvain plays unevenly; bursts of aggression followed by moments of surprising precision, the roar of a siege fire contrasted with the care of unraveling a single thread of from lace. The fire still crackles behind everything he does, consuming and roaring even in his moments of attempted stillness. There is a quiver in Gautier that is never stilled, an eruption waiting to happen like the molten heat that churns beneath the deepest faults of the earth. 

Hubert knows there will be an unraveling, an eruption. He is not sure whether it will be he or Gautier himself who tugs the string or moves the fateful bedrock plate. 

“You do love to stare, don’t you?” Sylvain’s broken-glass tone pulls at him. 

He could say, _“Nothing to stare at.”_ Sylvain would laugh brokenly, with him. 

He could say, _“I don’t know what you mean,”_ like the first time and they could both keep pretending, Sylvain’s prods and feints continuing to no real end. 

“Only because you keep avoiding my gaze, Gautier,” is what he does say instead. There. Sylvain looks him in the eye, and oh the fire in those eyes is cold, so cold. Hubert wants to submerge himself in the strange dark magic of that flame. 

“Maybe it’s part of my strategy, _Vestra_.” Sylvain spits his name back at him, tasting it through a bitter smile. 

“Your strategies do not all agree with one another,” Hubert retorts, and wins. 

Sylvain gapes at him, and then laughs, an arpeggio of harshness bleeding into actual mirth. Hubert enjoys the strange musicality as it loses its uniformity. “I’ve heard that before,” Sylvain says. The corners of his eyes crinkle, weary and relaxed. 

“Doubtlessly from me.”

“Doubtlessly.” Sylvain snorts, makes a motion to sip from his port, and then realizes the glass is empty. 

Hubert reaches and pours him the smallest dram. Enough to keep him there for another game’s worth of time. 

Sylvain accepts wordlessly, barely sipping. He looks at Hubert. He kicks off his boots. He waits. 

Hubert meets his gaze, and they drink.


	2. Happenstance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hubert and Sylvain cross paths in their respective evening activities.

Hubert glides through the halls of Garreg Mach, his footfalls silent as he exhales softly into the midnight breeze. There’s something about this time of night that feels like floating down a familiar stream. His familiarity with the route lets him drift near-mindlessly from shadow to shadow, blanketed by the cold black sky with its flickering stars. Hubert can now admit to himself that savors these moments of peace braided with purpose. 

He is alone with his thoughts in a way that feels comfortable rather than forced. There are few out and about— occasional students out of their rooms to pace, or to awkwardly entangle together in not-so-hidden alcoves, or simply explore. He easily evades Seteth, on his own patrol out of habit rather than true vigilance this evening. 

The openness of Garreg Mach loosens and tightens Hubert’s instincts in alternating waves. There is peace here in the hum of the populace settling to sleep, the rustle of the trees in the distance, the winking stars above submerged in an ink-black sky. They are also exponentially more exposed to danger with such openness in their fortifications. He has since installed several extra layers of security upon his and Edelgard’s arrival, but the threat always lingers in his mind. 

It is with this wariness that Hubert is jostled from his reverie. A rustle, a flash of brightness in his periphery, and Hubert shrinks into the nearest alcove. 

The movements are heavy and brisk. Not the loping of the too-large beasts often found beyond the castle walls, too slow to be any number of the rustling prey animals hiding amongst the greenery. Human, and more than one. Heavy breathing. Whispering. Erratic movements.

Hubert slinks along the edge of the stone alcove, positioning himself for a better view. The great stone arc casts a shadow that obscures his position. He sees two silhouettes closely gathered together, their figures melding into one. 

Ah. 

So it is not violence, then, but something else entirely more banal. 

Still Hubert does not move. Even whispers in such a context can be useful, and he does not have faith that he has an exit route that will not give away his presence. He must wait, he reasons. 

Voices echo off the stone walls, small arpeggios of laughter, one lighter and one deeper. From what Hubert can gather, one male and one female. A hardly unusual configuration, though Hubert has seen all kinds. There is a gasp, a giggle, and then what Hubert will only describe as the banal too-human sounds of kissing, gasped breaths. They’re still speaking amongst their haphazard collisions, their words stumbling half-said to one another.

“We shouldn’t—oh—“

“Come on, baby, let me hear you,”

That voice. 

Hubert lets himself sidle towards the source of it, and sure enough, Sylvain José Gautier stands against the wall, his large cavalier’s hands full of petticoat and complicated ruffles as he bunches them up around his forearms. He is holding a woman against the wall—rather, she is holding him, her stockinged legs wrapped around his waist and pulling him closer, dainty hands tangled in his hair and _pulling_ , and goodness, this is indeed mid-dalliance because Hubert can see that Sylvain’s trousers are pulled down slightly, enough to show that they are currently as intimately entwined as two people can be. 

The woman’s moans get progressively louder, far past the initial intended whispers. Hubert can see the sweat curling the hairs on the back of Sylvain’s neck as he keeps her lifted, airborne and propped against the stone as he thrusts lazily inside. It is no business of Hubert’s and yet he does look, sees that Sylvain possesses a surprising girth even for the swagger that he projects. The corded muscles of Sylvain’s forearms, dusted with red hair, are strained with effort as he keeps his thrusts lazy and increasing their depth. His voice remains almost infuriatingly level. He is crooning copulatory nonsense, something about beauty, something about goodness, how wet she is. 

The lattermost is true. The sounds of their lovemaking echo wet and filthy off the old stone walls into Hubert’s ears. 

He should go. He should have gone far before this point. He knows there is no intel to be gathered here. Sylvain is a known philanderer. Even now, Hubert can see him looking past the woman as she pulls at him, tears at his clothing, winds fingers in his hair. Hubert can see the direction of Sylvain’s gaze and it is something beyond his immediate situation. Hubert has seen Sylvain’s attention focused in battle or in play, but here his gaze sideswipes his surroundings, casting about but landing on nothing. 

Sylvain’s body moves mechanically and competently, hips snapping upwards as his partner of the evening groans wetly into his muscular chest. Is this what his partners seek out, then? This animal competence, automatic and thorough in its mockery of intimacy? Perhaps it is a convincing enough display. Perhaps the theater appeals to some. Sylvain is whispering meaningless affirmations into his lover’s ear, raspy and dry-mouthed. He must be close. 

Sylvain lets out a soft moan. It is uncharacteristic in the context of his lower-register compliments, and his knuckles tighten their grip as his thrusts speed up, lose finesse. 

Hubert calms his breath and checks himself for stillness. He is more alert than he should be for such a situation. He can feel his own blood pumping headily through his veins and, and though he knows it can be useful to mirror one’s quarry for certain strategies of understanding, he also knows that control has been lost. His blood has pumped further southward and his normally comfortable pants feels tight where he strains against them, throbbing despite himself . He pushes past the distraction as any good spy must. 

Sylvain’s body tenses as he emits a single, jagged gasp. He sheathes himself to the hilt, muscled legs corded as he empties himself. The woman beneath him moans appreciatively, pulling Sylvain closer. He slumps over her, laughing humorlessly. His cheeks are flushed, the red clashing with his hair. A droplet of sweat trails from his temple to the collar of his shirt. His breathing is slowing. 

It is the best time for Hubert to begin to slip away, and so he does. He hears the strange tongue of a contraception spell, cast hastily but quite competently. There is an indignant huff—perhaps Sylvain’s paramour did not expect him to be so diligent, perhaps hoped he would not be— but it gives way to mindless tittering and empty affections. 

Their voices fade away as Hubert creeps silently into the night air once again, feeling the wind on his face and the heat on his skin, still diffusing. His own breathing calms somewhat, still jagged from a strange adrenaline completely far from any danger. 

He will wait until he retires to his rooms. He will lock himself inside and attend to himself. Content with the evening’s peace, he will allow himself the small indulgence, attempt to block out the recent and vivid memories of watching skin on skin, of the force of Sylvain’s thrusts, his reddened cheeks, his empty gaze and clutching hands and thick, flushed length. He will take his own length in a shaking hand and wring himself dry, a wet exhale into his own glove as he shakes through the aftermath of his own spending. He will take longer than he would like to calm his own breathing.

There is no need to speak of this to anyone, and so he will not. 

He bolts the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am having a blast writing from Hubert's POV. Please do comment, it helps me see who is interested in this story and I admit it helps me a lot with motivation to get more of this out. I have a lot planned for these two, I hope!


	3. Seeing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain confronts Hubert. Somewhat.

Sylvain saunters in unannounced, wafting rudeness into Hubert’s office. He struts in like a bull, shoulders squared and eyes hard, smirk knife-edged and dangerous to those who don’t know its signs. 

He is so confident to walk in without preamble, so sure that Hubert has disabled his wards and traps. Hubert has of course, but the brashness irks him enough to want to undo them and watch flicks of dark magic tendrils disturb Sylvain’s bravado. 

Sylvain swings a long leg over the chair opposite Hubert and sits down, and they begin to play in near silence. There’s a cloud of imminent theatrics hovering over Sylvain, but Hubert surmises they will be able to get at least three moves in before it breaks into whatever storm is brewing inside. 

They make it three moves before Sylvain reaches into his pocket and takes a swig of something caustically alcoholic. A puff of it reaches Hubert’s nostrils, and he wrinkles his nose. “Charming, Gautier.”

“Oh, you know me,” snaps Sylvain, smiling as he takes one of Hubert’s less-important pieces. “Always charming.”

Hubert snorts. “At what proximity and timescale? Surely not past initial impressions.” He watches with sick pleasure as Sylvain’s eyes darken. Dangerous. It seems they are both in a mood. 

“People see what they want to see,” Sylvain retorts, and eyes seek out Hubert’s gaze like a honing spell. Hubert does not look away. Sylvain has never thrown a punch at Hubert before, but Hubert has heard tale of the occurrence, usually in taverns far away from his chosen hideaways. He wonders if Sylvain will break new ground today, and whether he himself will goad Sylvain into doing so. He says nothing and moves his piece, breaking eye contact. Better to feign disinterest and let Sylvain’s rage simmer. For a moment, there is no sound but for the velvet slide of pieces across the board, and Sylvain’s occasional sip from his hip flask. Hubert waits patiently for Sylvain to break the silence, his own expression impassive. 

“Speaking of seeing,” Sylvain begins. He lets his fingers hover over the board, letting the last word linger. There it is. Hubert decides to say nothing, keeping his eyes their usual cold and focused. 

He waits for Sylvain to move, but Sylvain is just staring at him, his half-smile awful, teeth shining in the poorly-lit room. “You’re not very stealthy for someone who’s supposed to be good at what you do.”

Hubert scoffs. “Why bother be stealthy in front of those who go out of their way to be seen?” He leans back in his chair, considering Sylvain. “I’m sure many have seen your fumblings before, and will again.”

“Not gonna scold me? Tell me how I’m ‘wasting my potential’?”’ Sylvain’s grin is ragged and dark, a grimace. 

Enough. Hubert folds his hands, the chess board forgotten. “Will you be handing me a script for my part of these antics?”

Sylvain is startled out of his taunting for a moment, and Hubert continues, using the opportunity to pour himself a dram.

“If you aim to put words into my mouth, why bother at all? If they are so interchangeable with those spoken by others, why come here?” Hubert sips, then sets down his glass. “Do forgive me if I go _off-script_ , Gautier.” 

“You don’t make it a secret that you disapprove of me, of everyone.” Sylvain’s voice is sullen.

“Would you prefer to feed me my lines? Perhaps I can conjure a mirage of myself for you to better talk to yourself.” Hubert can feel himself slipping, and the bourbon burns his throat as he harshly knocks it back. 

Sylvain snaps. “If that’s what gets you off, man.” 

“It is not.” _It’s not about what gets me off._ Too personal already, so soon. Sylvain has such a gift for bringing it out of him.

Sylvain laughs. “What does?” It sounds more rhetorical than an actual question. “I never see you in the usual hide-aways.” He takes a sip of his near-empty flask. “Or does a Vestra only do it in a bed?”

“My family name has nothing to do with my proclivities.” Hubert feels his face warmed by the whiskey. His posture and his privacy are already suffering and he gives in, scoffing. “As if I’d allow myself to be seen.”

“Like me.” Sylvain’s tone is more curious, a bit brighter.

Hubert snorts. “You’re not _allowing_ it, you’re advertising it.” He indulgently pours himself another small finger of whiskey, satisfied that Sylvain’s aggression has hit a low enough simmer not to upend the table. “The only thing stopping you from bringing your antics in front of the entire garrison is your sense of tactics.”

“You should try it. Some advertising. Might humanize you.” Sylvain’s smile is more crooked in the pleasant way this time. 

“The last thing I want.” 

Sylvain laughs. It is hearty and genuine, and the cloud above him breaks. His freckles are visible in the glow of the haphazard candlelight. 

Hubert wins their game, and Sylvain only smiles at him as he leaves for the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I have about 3-ish parts left to go! (The 4th is already mostly written). Don't worry, it will get more explicit--and intense--later. If you liked it or have thoughts, please leave a comment! Thank you so much! <3


	4. Indisposed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hubert is drugged during his duties. Sylvain sticks around to witness. Hubert mulls on strangeness.

Sylvain is late to their weekly chess game, which is just as well. Hubert himself has been similarly detained. The exhaustion of the day pools in his veins like iron from a forge, cooling and weighing him down as he slows. It’s a relief to find the room empty, and Hubert busies himself with the small end-of-day indulgences that he allows. 

He takes off his soiled gloves and washes his hands and face, dries them with a clean towel, and replaces the dirty gloves with clean ones. He dares to loosen his cravat infinitesimally. He dispels the security enchantments on the window enough to crack it slightly, just to let in a breeze—a practice regrettably learned from Ferdinand, who would simply not shut up about it one day until Hubert gave in so that he’d have a moment’s peace. 

It is nice, he admits, to feel the staleness of the air turn to something brighter, fresher. The security risk of keeping a window open for long is too great, but he has learned to enjoy this as a brief indulgence. 

Yet there is something strange about the way the air hovers around him, he notes. Perhaps something about the sound of the leaves, the way they seem to echo louder. It’s too regular to be any sort of intruder, yet they sound strangely distorted. 

It is not just the sound of the leaves. The wind. The texture of his gloves against his skin. The drag of his starched collar against his throat. The way his boots creak, usually soundless. A strange assault of smells, usually easily ignored. 

Hubert realizes abruptly that he has been standing in the same spot for minutes. Possibly at least five minutes, maybe more. 

He attempts not to laugh and makes a muffled grumble to himself instead.

The last prisoner had seemed a bit too pleased with himself as Hubert had rifled through his belongings. All the proper precautions had been taken. Still, there was always risk of carefully-placed poisons, of residue. There had been a mild scent that was familiar enough for Hubert to place, but it was not cause for alarm. The prisoner’s assumption that he wouldn’t have built up immunity to the common poison’s more lethal effects was an erroneous one, and the man and his ineffective methods had been efficiently disposed of, the poison forgotten. It had been such a routine interaction that it had escaped Hubert’s mind entirely.

Now, standing blearily in his room, his posture wavering, Hubert realizes that the dosage must have been higher than he’d previously assumed. He sighs and concentrates, eventually managing to remove his jacket. His fingers feel distant, as if he has to remind them that they are connected to the rest of his body. 

As if on cue, Sylvain barges in. 

“Hubert!” Sylvain’s already oft-messy hair is even more askew. “Sorry, I got caught up in a tactics thing, Edelgard wanted—well, it doesn’t matter, you probably know anyway, but she actually wanted to talk to me about something. Couldn’t stay away.” His cadence slows as he takes in the room, removes his jacket and kicks off his boots. “Anyway! We still on for chess? It’s kinda late, but you don’t sleep anyway, right?”

Hubert stares in response, says nothing. He realizes that he usually says something. “Gautier.” The silence echoes strangely in the room. He is strangely conscious of his breathing. “Yes.”

Sylvain is looking at him strangely. “Hubert, are you alright? You look…weird.” He smirks. “Weirder than usual.”

Hubert does not dignify that with a response, and instead lowers himself into the poorly-upholstered chair next to their well-worn chessboard. “I will be fine.”

“Will be?” Sylvain settles in across from him. His posture is terrible. Hubert feels a strange inclination to kick him under the table. He does not act on it, in part because his limbs will not move without concerted effort. 

“I will be fine,” Hubert repeats, his voice trailing off. “A momentary trifle.” He studies one of the chess pieces. There’s a chip in the wood in one of the pawns. Its dent feels a pleasant dip under the fabric of his gloves. He holds it softly in his hand and ponders it. When he looks up, Sylvain is starting at him strangely, the crinkle from his smile gone, his eyes sharp.

“Hubert, I can’t believe I’m asking this, but…What did you take?” 

Hubert sighs. “You would be more correct to ask, _what was I given._ ” He puts the pawn down back on the chessboard. He does not put it in its correct place, but he cannot move himself to care, instead focusing on bringing his hand back to its rightful place, approximately at the right distance from the end of his arm. 

“You were _poisoned?_ And they succeeded?” Sylvain lets out a not-quite-laugh, more of a nervous cough. “Should you…infirmary?” 

“No.” 

“My healing magic isn’t great, Hubert. I can try, but you’ll probably hate it—“

“This is not the worst poison I’ve ever imbibed, nor is it the first.” Hubert sighs. “Nor will it be the last.” 

“Well.” Sylvain’s posture has relaxed only minutely. “That doesn’t sound very fun.” 

Hubert attempts to set up the chessboard again. “The fun is immaterial.” His hands are not cooperating. There is something quite funny about it.

“So what does this poison do?” Sylvain asks. He has taken pity on Hubert and is setting up the board himself, ignoring Hubert’s stumbling efforts. 

Hubert sits back and lets Sylvain do the dextrous work. The walls of his office are so bare that the off-white paint seems more textured than usual. He reaches out a gloved finger and runs it down the rough-hewn surface. 

Sylvain’s eyes widen. “Hubert, are you—are you?!” He breaks off into an incredulous arpeggio of a laugh. “Are you _high_?”

“I would not use such imperfect terminology to describe my current state,” Hubert allows, carefully. 

“You are!” Sylvain slaps his knee, dimples breaking onto his cheeks with a crooked smile. “Today just got so good! Wow. Wow!”

“So glad to be of service, Gautier.” Hubert can feel himself squinting. He does not want to be squinting. There is clearly nothing to be done, for he is unable to stop. The chess board looks a bit wavy. Sylvain’s face is strangely luminous, his mouth open wide as he joyously gawps at Hubert’s misfortune. 

It is the most spritely he’s looked in weeks, since the death of his dour brother —Miklan, Hubert distantly remembers. They could not have been close, but the manic gleam in Sylvain’s eyes had taken an unusually steely glare as of late. His sharp edges, usually hidden in airy words, turned even sharper and in greater number. Sylvain had cleaned his brother’s blood off of his family’s heirloom weapon with a tight-lipped grimace and hard eyes. 

It wasn’t a new steeliness, Hubert had realized. It was simply rawness revealed, like the peeling of the outer layer of skin to show the red exposed ugliness beneath, that horrid vulnerable human meat that makes up so much of Hubert’s duties. 

Hubert realizes that he is very, very tired. He realizes distantly that Sylvain is trying to speak to him. Possibly has been for quite some time.

“Hubert? Are you ok in there?” Sylvain has scooted his chair closer to Hubert’s. “You’re kind of freaking me out here. Are you sure you don’t need to go to the infirmary?” 

“Positive.” Hubert’s own voice is distant in his ears, but thankfully level. He can feel himself frowning, slumping over further. 

Sylvain’s tone is uncommonly gentle. “You said you’ve done this before, right?” He bites his lip. It looks dry. Cracked. The small split of red against fair skin complements auburn hair. 

“As I said, Gautier,” Hubert says, attempting to draw himself up and succeeding in only the most optimistic of definitions, “this is not my first time, nor will it be the last. It is a negligible part of my duties, and it will pass.” He leans forward instead, propping himself up on his elbows on the chess table. Sylvain has quite a bit more freckles than he remembers. Up-close, Sylvain’s face is asymmetrical in small ways. Perhaps it is these small moments of asymmetry that lend to the feeling of the balance that Sylvain’s women find so pleasing, Hubert muses. A perfectly symmetrical Sylvain would be more statue than man. Hubert has seen magical enhancements to that tune before. He catalogues the asymmetries, now confident that he will be able to recognize an impostor Sylvain.

“You’re staring, Vestra.” Sylvain’s voice holds a tinge of amusement.

“Forgive me,” Hubert drawls, and what is probably his first apology in earshot of Sylvain causes both of Sylvain’s eyebrows to raise. “I am…unusually indisposed.” 

A snicker barely leaves Sylvain’s lips—quickly extinguished—before his expression turns more thoughtful. “I mean, it is pretty late.” He turns to looks at the pitch dark outside the window, his red hair illuminated in the flickering candlelight. “Surely her Majesty’s Red Right Hand can turn in for the evening before dawn just this once.” There’s something playful in Sylvain’s tone as he turns his gaze back to Hubert’s pathetic posture. He appears to be moving to stand, thus signaling his exit and perhaps the end of Hubert’s humiliation this evening.

“Perhaps until next time then, Gautier.”

“Sure! In a minute.” The playfulness in Sylvain’s expression turns lopsided, mischievous, and suddenly Hubert knows he may be in trouble. 

“What are you—“ Hubert’s exclamation is cut short as he feels himself being lifted, strong hands hoisting under his arms and around his ribcage until he is wobbily on this feet in only the most technical sense. Hubert can feel some distant part of him raging, but the rest of him is too tired. “You are lucky to still be alive after that.”

Sylvain laughs. “Heard that before.” He mercifully—mercilessly?—does not let go, perhaps sensing that Hubert would not stay upright otherwise. “Come on then, let’s get you to at least a sensible place to fall over.”

Hubert has little choice in the matter as Sylvain walks him over to the bed. Distantly, he can feel where all of his spare blades are stashed, knows that if this were an emergency that he could put a stop to this nonsense. Another day and he would demonstrate that a Vestra is not to be trifled with—in any state of mind. For now, the bed is hard underneath him as his knees buckle. Sylvain’s hands are warm on his shoulders as he props Hubert upright on the mattress and against the wall. Hubert realizes that he is not quite in his body as the warmth from Sylvain’s hands seeps into his bones. There’s a strangeness that lingers, the heaviness of the drug and the unexpected warmth braiding together in a headiness that overwhelms him, makes him dizzy. He forgets to breathe for a moment and sways, eyes unfocusing. Memories flit in his periphery and then vanish—a fleeting single act of gentleness from a nurse from what feels like another life, when he was one third this age, when he had less blood staining his name, when he had imbibed his first poison and did not weather it alone. The haziness and heady warmth had been the same, a pair of hands feeling larger than his body and tilting him this way and that. He can hear a muffled voice, A gentle hand takes his wrist, another pinches the tips of his left glove, and there is an exhale. A silence. 

_I am quite poisoned indeed,_ Hubert thinks, nearing giddiness. The shock of cool air on his naked right hand makes him feel so unusually exposed. He knows the sight by now, but the rumbling voice next to him is clearly taken aback. The familiar voice. Sylvain. Hubert counts his breaths and closes his eyes, then opens them. 

“Have they always looked like this?” Sylvain’s voice is pleasantly clear through the haze. He holds one of Hubert’s ashen hands gently, scrutinizing scorched grey-black scars covering Hubert’s hands and striping up his wrists and forearms. 

“No.” Hubert shakes his head. “Prolonged dark magic use. It poisons the skin, without tomes.” He stifles a yawn. “The price of an efficient and surreptitious battle strategy.”

“Huh,” Sylvain nods, and, as he has not been murdered for his transgression, takes off Hubert’s other glove. “You don’t do anything by halves.”

Hubert snorts in reply, head lolling back. “Not an option.” He flexes his fingers, then lets his hands drift down to the cool sheets on the bed. They are starchy and stiff. Hubert has not fallen asleep in a bed in many days, often instead opting for his desk or chair. It has a tinge of the forbidden. And yet his eyelids are so heavy, heavier than he can ever remember, and strong hands are laying him down the rest of the way. His boots are eased off, a sheet thrown over his slumped body. He cannot move, but there is, unusually, no need to at this time.There’s a creak of the wooden bedframe as Sylvain moves to stand. Hubert can see his silhouette blearily through half-lidded eyes that won’t fully open. 

“See you next time, Vestra,” Sylvain says, and there’s a smile in his voice. “If you don’t kill me for this later.”

“We’ll see, Gautier,” Hubert says. He is unsure if he manages to say it out loud, because the next moment he is asleep.  
—

_They are plodding up the hill, boots sinking into the cold wet mud as the rain patters above them, unceasing and sharp. Hubert resolutely ignores the chill as the ebb and flow of march undulates around him strangely. There is something wrong with this battlefield, the way they seem to gain nothing even as they trudge ever onward. Surely they have done this before. Hubert feels his feet slipping in the mud and catches himself at the last second. The rain is echoing in his ears and pounding louder and harder, all but drowning out the other troops. His battalion has fallen back, too far back for help, and there is a coldness seeping into his veins that pins him like the memory of a beetle in Arundel’s too-still study._

_Sylvain’s eyes flash orange through the haze, and suddenly Hubert is not alone. He feels his breath catch at the direct intensity of Sylvain’s gaze. Sylvain is looking at him, through him, in a way that he never has. His lips curl in that smile, but then something beyond, and he is growing, snarling, his teeth baring as he hunches forward and they are fangs now, curling over a rosy lip and splitting it unheedingly with a slash of blood. Hubert feels the air turn sour as Sylvain_ transforms _and perhaps these beasts run in the family for he is as big as Miklan had become, fully monstrous. A howl reverberates from seemingly several voiceboxes at once and Hubert’s bones feel leaden. He can not move. Sylvain that is not Sylvain towers over him, fully bestial, eyes blazing like the reddest hot coals. The mud winds steely fingers around Hubert’s ankles, the rain beats against his breast and throat, pelting him without mercy. There is a steady rumbling from the crest beast that was Sylvain as it—he?—it considers Hubert, hot breath steaming the cold air._

_Hubert cries out as he feels a great shock against his solar plexus— the beast has knocked him onto his back. The colossal form towers over him, emanating heat like a stoked furnace, and Hubert can feel the weight of its footsteps as it plods forward, utterly unconcerned at the threat that Hubert presents_

(there is none, his magic is gone, why is his magic gone)

_and suddenly there is a massive paw bearing down on his chest, a great pressure unlike anything he has ever felt. Hubert can feel the tremble of the mud beneath him as he is pressed into the yielding earth, his ribs creaking as the beast hums above him, its growl a rumbling pulse through his entire body. His lungs are being flattened, his bones threatening to give way, and Sylvain’s hand—paw— is so hot and vast and unyielding, and he is truly pinioned, bracketed by great claws and hot bestial breaths on his face. There is nothing but pressure, pressure on all sides from the cold mud and the hot inevitability of being crushed to death, and Hubert lets loose a final sigh as he feels those hot breaths come closer, a raspy tongue laving against his crushed throat and it is like a bowstring snapping, he cries out._

—

Hubert’s thrashes upright, his heartbeat deafening. His throat is hoarse, his limbs leaden. The sheets have been thrown askew and he shivers in the night air. _Alive. _He exhales slowly, forces his pulse to a steady beat as the dull roar in his head subsides. The beating of his blood against his skin makes him feel strangely aglow. His trousers, which he had not removed before sleep, stick shamefully to his now-softening erection.__

__He turns his head with great effort, and sees that someone left a glass of water on his side table._ _

__Hubert drinks the rest of the water, and feels the rest of the poison leave his body. His rest the second time around is more peaceful, though a great deal less exciting._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been waiting to write high!Hubert for so fuckin long and FINALLY and god it's just going to escalate from here. 
> 
> Thank you everyone so much for your comments, they really keep me going and light the fire under me to keep updating! If you like the story, let me know! I hope you enjoy!


End file.
